In the mirage were shadows of silhouettes
Spinning, turning, doing pirouettes
Enter the fear of perpetual temptation
Begin to pray for a quick adaptation
The mirage was a mask of frozen sweat
Accreted over the years, with no regret
To pocket the ball is all I sought
Memorize a new three-cushion bank shot
Cautiously sensing the taste of a last breath
But waiting to live up to the standards of death
She is the wind with a carnival in her purse
I am hitchhiker summoning a hearse
I have washed out the stains of fear and ridicule
Still, the possibility of hope is so minuscule
Is it that time again? I’ll check my birth certificate
Yep. Grab another tangent to the insignificant
The Infinite 